


On A Stranger's Day - Part One

by SanSanFanFan



Series: The On A.... Day SanSan Smut Series [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Darker Fluff, F/M, Halloween, Stranger's Day, mention of non-con knife play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanSanFanFan/pseuds/SanSanFanFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a Stranger's Day Joffrey demands entertainment.  He demands to be scared by the best storytellers in the land with a purple velvet coin purse of gold for any that can truly scare him...</p><p>But he's been terrifying Sansa, and now Sandor has revenge on his mind.</p><p>Part Two coming soon...</p><p>A darker part of the usually light and fluffy 'On a... Day' series especially for Halloween/Stranger's Day.  There will be fluff and smut, but plot is creeping in along with with the darkness ;D</p><p>Non-chronological as usual, Sansa aged up etc etc...</p>
            </blockquote>





	On A Stranger's Day - Part One

“… and the winds blew through the trees on cloudless night, one much a like to this very night, and the hunting lord heard the baleful snarl of the long dead dogs on the moorlands…”

“Bored! Next!”

Sansa watched from the back of the hall as another storyteller plumped and preened. Red cloaks moved away the first, who deflated and hung his head as they pushed him away.

“I have a tale from the furthest north that will chill your blood and shake your very bones, your Grace!”

Joffrey sighed dramatically and threw the purple velvet purse into the air to catch it again one handed. 

“I have many gold coins here for you if you are telling me true storyteller!” Joffrey lounged back in the iron throne in his black silks, looping a thin hose clad leg over the arm of it. He winced as he did, catching himself on a blade. He tried to cover his reaction, but Sansa saw him. And she was glad to see it. 

“My story begins in the damp and shadowy castle of a minor lord of a house whose name and words are long forgotten…”

The storyteller was warming up, but Sansa was already distracted. She was trying for the hundredth time to make her mask more comfortable on her face, shifting it with careful fingers. It pinched her head tightly and sharp edges caught on her hair. But the king had insisted that she wear it. All the lords and ladies of the court wore masks this night, all of them skulls. There were bear skulls, cat skulls, dogs, shadow cats, and birds with long beaks and the remains of plumage stuck in the whiteness of false bone shaped from parchment and glue. But only the king’s gift to her, the wolf skull mask, had the unmistakable pale sheen of real bone. Only hers… and the King’s own mask, a human skull with ram’s spiralling horns screwed into it and covered over with purest Lannister gold. 

She did not want to wear the vile thing, but when the King insisted… she obeyed. So she watched the yearly competition to scare the King through the teeth of a poor dead wolf’s head. And shivered.

“… and he heard the dire whistling of the wind… and the howling of wolves…”

“Wolves?! Wolves! Why the fuck would I want to hear a story of wolves!” Joffrey glared down at the terrified man. Nothing in his story could be as fear inducing as the King himself Sansa thought, and she moved back further into the shadows, where she could find them amidst the thousands of candles in the throne room. The crowds around her, all in black as well as tradition dictated, made it easier still for her to disappear and she was for once glad of the swell of people around her.

It was not like this in Winterfell. There the Stranger’s Day was not just a day for those who followed the new gods. Everyone in Winterfell and Wintertown alike would spend the daylight hours remembering the dead, either in the sept or the godswood. Father used to take Sansa and the other Stark children down to the crypt to see those who had gone before them. He would look sad and mournful, but smile at her when she fretted for him. 

And then at night there would be a large feast, but one with a very special difference. Every year the Lord Stark would pick a common folk child to be lord of the feast, granting the boy or girl the Lord of Winterfell’s very own seat at the high table, and waiting on them himself with rich fruit puddings and iced cakes. It had been many years before Sansa had understood why she was made to sit near a grubby child with unevenly cut hair… but her mother had explained how the Stranger could upset all situations, bring the high down low, and raise the lowly up high. Each year the Stranger’s Day was there to remind them of the chaos of life…

There were no skull masks in Winterfell. Nor elaborate black silk and velvet dresses cut to the latest fashionable shapes. Nor candles burning the whole night through, nor parties with storytellers vying for gold. But she also felt no fear in Winterfell on the Stranger’s Day. Not as she did here.

Another storyteller had been ushered away and Joffrey was complaining again, blowing hot air out from behind his mask. Whose skull was it that he wore? She dreaded to think. At least her mask was not large enough to be the skull of a true dire wolf…

She saw the Hound pushing through the crowds, and she dipped further back into the shadows. He wore no black, nor any mask, just his usual Kingsguard armour and stood out plainly for it. Her heart caught in her throat as she saw him. 

_Please_ , she whispered silently, _please don’t let him see me_. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she was suddenly thankful for the disturbing mask she had been forced to wear. Avoiding him was tearing her apart, but it was so, so necessary…

Unbidden, the memory of that night came to her, and she shivered a little, paling.

“Cold, girl?” It was Sandor. Somehow he had circled through the crowds and arrived behind her without her notice. Oh gods, he looked angry. Angry, and a little sad too.

She bobbed a stiff curtsey and made to move away. But a quick hand grabbed her upper arm and he held her still.

“I thought the stones bloody meant something!” He hissed her, keeping his voice low.

“Please… _please!”_

“Are you scared now? Is that it girl? Scared that you’ve given too much away to the old dog!” His face was reddening and furious, but his eyes were searching her face. “Weeks of you just curtseying and running off when you see me…!” He growled deep in his chest. “I thought you didn’t need to call me anymore, but I didn’t know that you now meant me to beg you!”

Tears came to her eyes, and she looked about frantically for any chance of escape. And then she saw Joffrey approaching through the sycophantic press of people all in black. No, no, not now!

“What happened, girl?” His eyes were sad. “What did I _do_ …?”

“Please… please Sandor!” She begged him then. 

“Tell me!” He roared. People near to them were moving away. Joffrey had spotted them, and was approaching with a slick smile on his face. Sandor watched Sansa look at him, and she felt sure he could feel the trembling of her body through his fingers.

“Joffrey… what did Joffrey do to you?” He whispered, a realisation dawning.

“Nothing… nothing!”

“Don’t you ever fucking lie to me!” And then Joffrey was with them, watching the terrified girl and the large warrior looming over her with a pleased eye.

“Ah good! I see my dog has found his wolf… again!” Joffrey pulled Sansa close to his side and stroked her hair, settling it around the fanged wolf skull mask. “Did you know I sent the Hound out to fetch me your mask Sansa? I had him comb the kingswood with slavering dogs for days to find a suitable wolf. I’d say it was a vast improvement. Did it die slowly, dog?”

Sandor paused, looking at her downcast eyes. “It got a quick clean death. Better than some deserve.” 

Joffrey laughed, “Yes, better than some wolves deserve!” But Sansa thought that the comment had been aimed at the King himself. 

“Do you like my dog’s mask Sansa?” he made a feast of looking up at his sworn shield’s face, and the man just looked bored and impassive. “Oh wait… that’s not a mask is it?!” He laughed at his own humour, and but Sandor’s face remained frozen in a look of apathy. 

The King sighed dramatically. “Well, as fun as this is… there’s still some storyteller from Lys who believes he can actually scare me… and I mean to test him on that.” He juggled the coin purse again, before dropping it clumsily and swooping it up again from the floor, and trying to pretend nothing had happened.

“Hound… keep the Lady Sansa company this night. It is the Stranger’s Day after all, and it is right and proper that she should remain scared for as much of it as possible!” He laughed at his own cleverness and strode off back towards the iron throne.

Sandor looked down at her and she avoided his eyes.

“What did he do to you girl?” His voice was gentler now, and strangely hoarse. But in the press of revellers all she could do was shake her head. He seemed to make a decision then.

“The King said you’re to go to bed, so you’re to go to bed!” He spoke louder, taking a hold of her arm again and guiding her from the throne room.

“No!” She struggled against him, which in fact only served to support his falsehood. Once out of the hall he softened his hold on her, but he did not let go or slow his stride, and she ran to keep up with him, removing the foul mask with her other hand as she did. Curious eyes watched them, but what did they see? The King’s own guard taking her to her room? He’d been sent before to fetch her or to take her to her King. 

“Please… please don’t!” She begged, tears falling as he brought her all the way to her chambers, throwing out her maid, who knew better now than to argue about the inappropriateness of him being there.

“Seven days you cared for me and changed the bandages on my wound. Seven days you helped me walk to the fucking privy. You read me stories and told me all of the buggering gossip of court. King sends me to the woods for three days to kill a wolf and when I get back you won’t even fucking look at me!” He stood her in front of him, her back to the fireplace… gods curse her maid, she’d set a fire! The heat was reminding her of the night Joffrey had sent for her. Tears fell untouched down her face.

“What did he do to you!?”

“Please Sandor, don’t make me tell you!”

“Did he touch you?!” Sandor raged. “Is that why you don’t want my touch no more?!” He drew his dagger in his anger and Sansa shied away.

He threw it to the ground and the metal shrieked and clanged across the stone floor. “Do you now think even I would hurt you?!”

He sat down heavily on her bed, hunching over. She knelt quickly and took his large calloused hands in hers.

“If… if I tell you… you must swear not to kill him. You must swear!”

A dark look passed over his face. “Aye then, I swear it.”

She stood slowly, her fingers trembling as she slowly undid the laces to her dress. It was so different to the other times she’d undressed for him, and part of her wondered if she would ever do it so light heartedly again. The King had called for her, sending Meryn Trant to fetch her from her chambers in the dead of night. The fire had been on her bare back as he’d had Trant strip her. The dagger had flashed silver as he’d run it over her bare flesh. The blood had welled quickly, staining her shift.

She heard Sandor’s sharp intake of breath as he saw the wounds. But they weren’t so bad really. She’d looked at them so often now in the warped mirror they let her have, they didn’t seem so very bad any more. Thin red lines scoring her breasts and her stomach, and her thighs. Oddly enough it had been Trant who spoken of restraint to his King, saying that he’d spoil her worth if he scarred her too much. But no man who wed her would see these lines until after the wedding. No man apart from Sandor. And so she’d hidden from him, or taken shelter behind bland curtesy on his return from the kingswood, praying that they might heal before he would ever see her naked again…

“The maester said there’d be little scarring… he gave me a cream…”

“I’ll kill him.” The words were flat, dead sounding.

“You swore!”

“You cannot think I would keep such a promise!” He stood quickly, grabbing his dagger in a fist, holding it so tight his knuckles whitened.

“This… this is why I hid from you!” Sansa shook, “I cannot see you beheaded as well!”

He stopped and returned to her. 

“I meant everything you thought the stones meant. I swear it! Don’t make me watch them cut your head off too!”

“Girl…”

“I have a cream. The maester said they won’t scar much…”

“And how long before you’ll want a man’s touch again?! I see you shaking! I’ve watched you run and hide from me…!”

She looked about quickly, finding the pot on her dresser. She swallowed her fear and smiled at him as sweetly as she could, gesturing towards it. “Fetch that, dog.”

“Don’t make yourself do this! Not for me!”

“It’s because it is you, Sandor. Now. Fetch that, dog!” 

He came back with the pot, and slowly, reluctantly opened it. The smell of the cream was sweet, with lavender and some higher note of lemons.

“I should leave you alone…” 

“You should not.” She gently ran fingertips through his hair as he sat back on the bed and took to caring for her wounds. The cream was cold in the warmth of the room, and she gasped a little as he spread a finger’s worth along one line of red. His breath was hot on her too, his face inches from her bareness as he gently spread it on a line that curved around the swell of her breast. Her nipples hardened and the next touch was across that one nearest to the light cut, his fingertips covered in the cream that made her tingle there. And elsewhere… below. 

His attentions were making her wet, adding a shine between her legs to the shine that the cream was making on her bare torso. He was smoothing the lines over, spreading the cream in the light of the fire, making her glimmer in the firelight. And then his fingers were tracing the red lines below her navel, running closer to her curls, until those too were slicked with the cream. A fingertip travelled lower, finding its way through the dark red hair to where she was tingling for him already. And then the mixture of the cream made her flesh sing, and the feel of his greased fingertips moving within her made her drop her head back and grasp his shoulders with her fingers, digging in her nails as though they were claws. And she wanted to howl, let the beast out and run with him. Her song was wild as he dropped to run his mouth and tongue along her inner parts, reddening them with his attentions. She soared, and she ran, and her body shook, but not with fear. 

Returning to herself, she gave him a wolfish smile, before moving closer, straddling him on her bed. He rubbed against her through his breeches, and it was the work of a moment for her to tear through their laces and to release him. He captured her mouth as she slid herself down onto him, the grease rubbing from her and onto the black hairs of his chest. His slicked hands moved quickly over her back and through her hair, pushing it away from her face and sharpening her features. And then she was running again, moving on top of him with an urgency that he responded to. She scratched her nails lightly down his chest, and he whimpered, whispering for her to do it harder. She paused, not wanting to mark him as Joffrey had done with her, but then he urged her on again, and she saw the difference clearly and dragged her nails sharply against him. 

_Come here, dog_ , the wolf whispered, and the two beasts moved hard and fast against each other as she rutted with him. As her nails grazed his nipples he released inside her, shaking as he pushed her to her own climax.

Panting, the wolf and the dog rolled together onto her bed, still linked between their legs. Then he was touching her gently, stroking her side and her thighs. She traced the scars on his chest, the thin lines of silvery skin from swords and daggers. The healing wound from the tourney on his side...

“We will look more alike… when they fade to scars.”

“Some of them may fade entirely. The blade was thin unlike that of a sword…” He stroked her face. “I would not have you look like me.”

She kissed him deeply and a sigh of contentment came from him. “I feared all this might have been done with…” He paused, as though building courage. “If we could leave… if there was a way… would you come with me?”

She nodded, her eyes wide and full of him. There was a seriousness of purpose on his face she was unfamiliar with.

“We’d need to be bloody smart about it.” He moved from her and rolled back, pulling her with one arm to lie across his broad chest. She lay an ear to his heart and revelled in the strength of it. “And smart now. I must go.” She slipped from him and curled herself about a pillow instead, a poor substitute for his warm skin.

He stood and looked back to her, his eyes roaming all over her. She blushed a little at his attentions. 

“I’ll not kill him Sansa. I swore that to you…”

But then he was dressed and gone, and sleep came for her.

***

The hour was very late when the insistent knock came at her door. She woke to find she was still naked, having fallen asleep almost to the moment of his leaving.

She wrapped a nightgown about her and cautiously opened the outer door. Sandor stood there in his shabby armour, a large dark shape over one shoulder. He dashed in as soon as the door cracked open, pushing her gently to one side and depositing the shape onto her floor. It seemed to be a very large sack of flour… except this sack had black hose clad legs coming out of the opening of it.

“No! Sandor you didn’t!” A hand came to her mouth to cover a fearful scream as she imagined the flash of the headsman’s axe.

“Calm yourself little bird!” 

She dashed about lighting a few small candles. 

“There’s things we need…”

“A shovel and a good hidden burial place?”

He laughed his deep laugh, and pulled the sack from the body. Joffrey’s blacks were dusted all over with the remains of the flour, but his chest moved slightly as he breathed. A large lump on the back of his head was matted with blood.

“Do you still have your serving girl’s dress… the one you wore on our night in the city?”

She nodded, twisting her fingers together in distress. 

“I have clothes to change him into. I’ll need your help with that. I also have a couple of parchment and glue skull masks for us. And we need some shears. You must have some amidst your sewing stuff…”

“What did you do Sandor!?”

“We were walking towards the cunt’s chambers. Just the two of us. Me behind him by a step or so as it always is… And it just came to me. He wants to be scared on a Stranger’s day, does he not? So let’s scare him good and true.”

Sandor smiled darkly and took something from his belt, to toss into the air and catch one handed again and again. The purple velvet purse full of the King’s gold.

“This night… this night we win the prize, girl.”

***

_To be continued…_


End file.
